


Best Parts

by Zighana



Category: Insecure (TV), On My Block (TV)
Genre: Adolescence, Biracial Character, Black Character(s), Colorism, Freeform, Gen, Growing Up, Oscar's daughter, Slice of Life, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27913105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zighana/pseuds/Zighana
Summary: Her mother worries Giselle has all of her negative traits. Giselle disagrees.
Relationships: Cesar Diaz/Original Female Character(s), Issa Dee/Oscar "Spooky" Diaz, Molly Carter/Alejandro "Dro" Peña, Molly Carter/Andrew Tan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Best Parts

**Author's Note:**

> In case y'all haven't read Life's A Bitch (And Then You Die) and you happen to come across this fic, welcome. This is a spin-off. 
> 
> Issa (from Insecure) and Spooky got married and had a daughter and two sons. This story is told through the daughter's eyes as she grows up with Issa and Spooky as her parents. These are one-shots, or snapshots of Giselle's life, from childhood to the day she graduates high school. Enjoy. :)

Giselle was seven years old when she walked up to her parents, put on her princess tutu, and said, “I wanna do ballet.” 

She was inspired by her auntie Melinda, who, after years of dancing, moves with such grace and elegance that Giselle thought she was a swan in disguise.

Her parents, of course, were supportive; they spent weeks combing through Atlanta to find an affordable ballet class until they found one, coincidentally, blocks away from her father’s restaurant. Her father would drop her off at ballet before he went to work and her mother would pick her up when Giselle got done. 

First class was difficult; Giselle lost count of the many times she lost her balance or got pulled to the front of the class to sharpen her form. Over time, she got better, better enough to do pirouettes without stopping and can leap into the air to land on her tiptoes flawlessly. 

Her instructor was a sweet black woman with a warm smile and a gentle hand. It helped that she was the only dark-skinned face besides Giselle’s that was in this class of white, tan, and beige. Ms. McKinley was her name; Giselle can’t help the smile coming on her face whenever she hears Ms. McKinley’s warm voice greeting her when she walks in. 

“You’re getting better, Giselle. Keep going, okay?” She always tells her. Giselle knows that as long as she tries her best, she could do no wrong in Ms. McKinley’s eyes. 

And then, when Giselle comes into the studio without hearing Ms. McKinley’s voice, she’s not there anymore. 

Instead of Ms. McKinley, it’s a tall, stern looking white woman with her dirty blonde hair pulled into a tight bun and blue eyes that remind Giselle of a dead fish. 

The woman’s name is Mrs. Garcia, and she’s replacing Ms. McKinley for good. She never told the class why. 

Mrs. Garcia’s teaching style was the night to Ms. McKinley’s day; she didn’t care if Giselle did her best, she wanted perfection. If it isn’t singling Giselle out for her form, or humiliating her for making mistakes, it has to be giving her a hard time over her ballet shoes. 

“True ballet dancers get _flesh_ colored ballet shoes.” She says, tapping her yardstick on Giselle’s ballet shoes. 

Her mother had dyed them with coffee to match her skin tone; what in the world did Mrs. Garcia meant by _flesh-colored_? These _are_ flesh colored, far as Giselle could tell. 

There’s days where Giselle wouldn’t even be allowed to join the class because of her ballet shoes. She would be forced to sit while her classmates practice. She’d go home feeling angry and not able to express to her parents why. She couldn’t tell them; they’d spent too much money on her shoes, her leotards, her tights, the classes itself. She decides to grit her teeth and bare it. 

Today is their first dance recital. Giselle had practiced everyday for the past few weeks for this moment. Her mother took her to the hair salon to curl her wild mane into a ponytail meant for a princess. She even had a little bit of her mom’s lipstick and blush for the occasion. 

Her father, a man who doesn’t show much emotion, smiles warmly at her and hugs her close. 

“You look beautiful, Gigi.” He says, kissing her forehead. 

She’s with her classmates behind the curtain, her stomach erupting in butterflies and her hands shaking. Mrs. Garcia comes to the class. 

“I expect nothing but perfection,” she says. She eyes Giselle and zeroes in on her shoes. She closes her eyes tightly and inhales. 

“Giselle,” she says. Giselle looks up.

“Yes ma’am?” She asks. Mrs. Garcia taps her shoe with the yardstick. 

“What’s wrong with this picture?” Mrs. Garcia asks. 

“What...what do you mean?” 

“Look at everyone here. Look at their shoes, look at what color they are, and look at yours. What’s wrong with this picture?”

Giselle looks down. 

“Mine are brown...and theirs aren’t.” She mumbles. 

“Dance is a group effort, and you need to look like a team. We can’t do that if we have one that has to be different from the bunch.” Mrs. Garcia says. 

“My mommy says...it has to match your skin color. And mine’s brown.” Giselle says. Mrs. Garcia crouches to Giselle’s level.

“Are you being defiant?” She asks. Giselle shakes her head. 

“No, ma’am. I was just saying…”

“You know we don’t tolerate defiance in my classroom.”

“I know that, Mrs. Garcia, but I don’t think it’s fair that I have to wear shoes that don’t match my skin color…”

“If you don’t like my rules, then maybe you shouldn’t be a part of this dance recital.”

Giselle’s eyes widen.

“What?”

“I don’t want defiant dancers who don’t play by my rules. You can sit this one out and at the next dance recital, if you play by the rules, you can join.”

“But my mommy and Papa are out there…”

“Well if you played by my rules you wouldn’t have had to disappoint them.” 

“Please, Mrs. Garcia. I have to perform…”

“I’m sorry, Giselle.”

Her classmates look back at her; some of them look with pity, others sneer at her and chatter amongst themselves in hushed whispers. Giselle backs into the darkness and runs to the bathroom. 

She cries until her throat hurts and her face feels numb, wiping the snot from her face until it’s a raw and red mess. When she emerges from the bathroom, her mother walks in and pauses.

“Baby, what’s wrong? Why aren’t you onstage?” She asks. She lifts Giselle up to her hip and wipes her tears away. 

“Mrs...Mrs. Garcia...she...she...she wouldn’t let me play because...because of my shoes.” She blubbers. Her mother frowns. 

“What’s wrong with your shoes?”

“They’re not...they’re not...the right color.” 

Her mother’s face goes blank. 

“Where is she?” She asks. 

“Backstage.” Giselle answers. Her mother sets her down. 

“Your daddy is waiting outside. I need to talk with your teacher.” 

Giselle comes out to her father sitting on a chair and looking at his phone. 

“Papa,” she says as she walks towards him. He turns and shoves his phone in his pocket.

“Princess, what’s wrong? Why are you crying? Come here.” 

He picks her up and holds her as she cries into his shoulder. Giselle hears sharp clicks of heels and she turns. 

Her mother storms past them to the stage, her face contorted in rage. 

“Bunny, where are you going?” Her father asks. He eyes Giselle. 

“Let’s go follow her.” He says, standing up and walking behind her mother. They make it backstage where her mother pulls Mrs. Garcia to the side. 

“Why the fuck you got my daughter crying in the bathroom and why the hell isn’t she onstage?” Her mother asks. Mrs. Garcia crosses her arms.

“Your daughter hasn’t been following the rules. I told her to get flesh-colored shoes for the past few weeks now. She didn’t do as I asked, so she wasn’t allowed to perform.” She says. 

“Her last teacher didn’t have a problem with her shoes then. Why is it a problem now?”

“Because ballet is a team effort and you can’t have ballet if everyone decides to be different.”

“You realize my daughter is the only… _visibly_ black child in your class. Everyone else isn’t. Of course she’s gonna be _different_.” 

“A team must...have a similar look for it to be aesthetically pleasing to the audience. Let’s not make it a race thing…”

“She’s the only black girl in your class. It can’t help but _be_ a race thing.” Her mother says, inching closer to Mrs. Garcia. 

“We have a diverse group of girls in my class. And all of them know to wear flesh colored ballet shoes.”

“Giselle’s skin color _is_ a flesh color. So, what are you even talking about?” Her father interjects. 

“You know what I meant, Mr. Diaz.” 

“No, I don’t.” Her father says. His tone is deeper, scarier. “Explain it to me.” 

Silence. 

Mrs. Garcia, for the first time, looks helpless. 

“That’s what I thought. Come on, Gigi. Let’s go get ice cream.” Her father says. He lifts her on his hip and the three leave for Giselle's favorite hdiner. 

Giselle buckles herself in her seat and her mother turns to face her. 

“Don’t you _ever_ ,” she says. “Let someone make you feel bad for the color of your skin. It’s beautiful like everyone else’s and don’t let anyone tell you different. Understand?”

Giselle nods her head. Her mother turns back in her seat. 

“Can’t believe she would do that to a little girl,” she says, shaking her head. “Un-fucking-believable.” 

Her father starts the car. 

“You okay, Gigi?” He asks through the rear view mirror. 

“Yes, Papa. Can I get a banana split?”

“You can have whatever you want, babygirl.”

Giselle smiles. 

The next morning, Giselle grabs her ballet shoes and laces them up. She looks in the mirror, takes a deep breath, and dances the moves she’d practiced all month long. All of Mrs. Garcia’s mean words melt away with each spin. 

When she lands in her finishing pose, she notices her parents watching. 

“How’d I do?” She asks. 

Her mother wipes a tear from her eye. 

“Perfect.” They say in unison.


End file.
